The NKVD Colonel turned to look and clicked to attention.
“Comrade Marshal, the prisoners are secure. The command is yours.”
“Thank you, Comrade Polkovnik.
Zhukov recognised the voice immediately, as did Malinin.
Konev stepped into the room, the expression bringing with it smugness and satisfaction on an epic scale.
“Ah, Comrade Zhukov.”
He did not deign to recognise Malinin.
“Before you go, what other disasters have you left me to repair, eh?”
He picked up the notes the two had been working on, and quickly skimmed them.
“Too little, too late, Comrade. Your time has now passed.”
Standing back, he nodded at the NKVD Colonel, who swept the two men out of the room, and away to await a flight back to Moscow.
Chapter 102 – THE SILVERBIRDS
When eating an elephant, take one bite at a time.
It was a piece of theatre, worthy of one of Hollywood’s best, and, even though he said so himself, Georges de Walle thought it brilliant.
‘The Moonlight Sonata.’
The headquarters was silent and dark, the storm having passed as quickly as it came, the disappearance of the clouds now revealing the night sky in all its glory. The only illumination in the building was a reading lamp here and there, sufficient to track a safe path through the deserted desks and empty chairs, but not enough to overcome the artificial tension created by the music.
Guards were at a normal level around the headquarters, but not inside the building, where all was left quiet, save for those that had a part to play in the drama.
The visitor showed his papers for the third and final time and entered the building, immediately feeling his senses prick, roused by the semi-darkness, and the absence of activity.
And the music.
The gentle, yet sinister tones, of Beethoven’s work permeated the senses, the mournful piano bringing different visions to those who could hear.
Kowalski moved carefully towards his goal, the door ajar, permitting a ray of light to escape, illuminating his path to Knocke’s office, as the famous sonata moved into its second phase.
He pushed the door open, noting the figure of Knocke stood with his back to the door, framed in the window, the moonlight picking out the edges of the silent figure.
His senses were screaming, but he had a job to do.
“Come in, Comrade Kowalski, come in.”
Knocke turned smartly and indicated the chair laid out for the purpose, relaxing into his own seat, flicking a Colibri lighter into life, and lighting a cigarette, his face starkly illuminated by the flames.
Kowalski’s heart thumped in his chest as he looked at the visage.
An emotionless face.
A sinister face.
A dangerous face.
In that face, Kowalski saw his end, and he knew something had gone wrong.
None the less, he determined to play the game to its bitter end.
“Knocke, you failed to assist the Soviet forces in the Alsace. My information is that you actively participated in their destruction.”
Knocke’s face remained impassive as Kowalski waited for some reaction.
“You know what this could mean? Your wife and your children? Do they mean nothing to you?”
Maybe it was the music, or possibly the moonlight, or even Kowalski’s imagination, but something in Knocke’s face made him suddenly afraid.
“My wife? My children? They mean everything to me, or, in my wife’s case, meant everything to me.”
The agent was confused.
“You don’t know, of that I am sure, otherwise you would not be here, risking your neck for your masters.”
Knocke opened the drawer to his right and selected a photograph.
“Kowalski, or whatever your name is, my wife was killed by the NKVD on October the 5th.”
Kowalski knew he was a dead man walking.
“This picture was taken last Sunday.”
The Legion officer flicked the photograph across the desk, where it came to rest perfectly, the image loud and clear, taunting ‘Leopard’ with its message of defiance.
Stood in front of the Unterlinden Museum was a family group. In the middle was Knocke, resplendent in his mixed uniform, French insignia and German medals comfortably mounted on a mix of uniform. Either side of him were two girls, young women, with their father’s looks, and their father’s eyes.
‘I have been played for an idiot!’
The sonata drew to a close, its soft tones now not in keeping with the desperation that Kowalski felt.
“So, Herr Knocke, what now?”
The music stopped, the sound of the needle scratching constantly on the final circuit now became as threatening and sinister as the sonata had been, although unintentionally.
The tension grew, the scratching all invasive.
It stopped abruptly as De Walle lifted the arm off the record.
Kowalski jumped as the Frenchman’s voice broke the spell.
“What happens now is that you work for us, Sergey Andreyevich Kovelskin. And if you do what is demanded of you,” De Walle paused for effect, “Well, then you will get to go home and see Valeria and your son, Igor, when the war is over.”
Shocked he may be, but the fact that the Frenchman knew specifics made his senses light off further.
De Walle knew he had his man, and nodded to his left.
Emerging from the shadows came Anne-Marie de Valois.
She placed a picture in front of the GRU agent, one he had seen before, of people he knew, and loved.
To another listener, her soft tones would have been soothing, possibly arousing.
To Kovelskin, they were the bitter gloat of a Harpy, cutting straight to his heart.
“Valeria and your son say hello.”
Back in his jeep, Kovelskin sat in the front seat, as his driver had been ordered to take some boxes of important documents back to the headquarters, filling the back of the vehicle. He settled into silent thought, his commitment to the Motherland struggling with his commitment to his family.
Indeed, for the first time, he had to separate the two into different entities, knowing that to act in favour of one was to damage the other.
Noticing the driver’s concerned look, he tried to smile, but found the act tested his powers of resilience.
“Is there something wrong, Sir?”
“Not really, Corporal, thank you.”
Under the continuing scrutiny, Kovelskin shrugged, indicating that feminine intuition was indeed correct.
“Sir, do we need to get back to headquarters quickly, or shall I take the long route?”
The Major pondered that for a moment.
“Don’t you have a date with soldier boy Logan tonight, Corporal?”
Gisela Jourdan made her play.
“Captain Logan let me down, Sir. I had promised to make him a meal in my quarters.”
Leaning across to add to the drama, Jourdan spoke softly, and in a voice guaranteed to arouse sexual interest in a corpse.
“I arranged for fresh meat and vegetables, and a bottle of Moselle too,” her foot came off the accelerator for the slightest of moments as she leant further over, “And my roommate is away for the night.”
The subtle scent of the woman, the softness and tone of her words, the closeness of her body, collectively launched an assault on Kovelskin’s senses.
“Such a shame to waste it all, Major.”
‘I need the escape of a woman’s body.’